Not Quite Cinderella
by Vanille Romaine
Summary: To her utter horror, Gwen Connor wakes up one day with a killer hangover and discovers she's married her childhood nemesis, Alex de Lune, who is also a prince! As it happens, ancient Beladirian law forbids an unwed prince from taking the throne. What now?


**Chapter One  
****The Morning After, In Capital Letters**

* * *

She wasn't quite sure whether it was the insulting presence of the sunlight streaming in from the window or the shrill blaring of her alarm clock that woke her up. Probably the latter. How could something so tiny have such sheer, earsplitting volume? Either way, she completely regretted opening her eyes.

_I. Want. To. Die._

Naturally, Gwen Connor had had her fair share of hangovers, but by no means did that fact lessen the agony of that dreaded event that Gwen had dubbed 'The Morning After'. In capital letters.

Gwen reached out a hand and turned off the alarm clock, just barely restraining herself from chucking the damned thing at the wall. She tried to get up, in terrible want of a hot shower, but was stopped by two things.

The first was an arm—_an arm_—around her waist.

The second was a protest…of the _vocal_ kind.

Well, admittedly, the protest was not all that vocal. It was more of a muttered 'mmhmf', and accompanied by a tightening of the arm around her waist. Still, it could only mean one thing.

Slowly, Gwen turned her head and saw, with mounting horror, the unmistakable body of a man sprawled in her bed. In her _bed. _With _her._ In_ bed _with_ her._

Resisting the urge to scream, Gwen let her eyes wander upward to the man's face.

She instantly recognized the handsome face half-covered by the pillow, and reconsidered her decision not to scream.

The man's eyes suddenly flickered open, the initial shock in his dark gaze quickly hidden by a lazy, easy kind of charm. "Good morning," he said, employing that despicable tone of voice that combined contempt and sarcasm (and still sounded so irresistibly sexy, though Gwen would have rather jumped off a cliff than admit it). He smirked and added, "A _very_ good morning, I should think."

"Alex!" Gwen screeched.

"Gwen, darling, do shut up," he drawled, amazingly managing to keep his haughty demeanor as he grimaced in pain. "My head is _killing_ me, and you're not helping any."

Gwen spluttered indignantly, completely at a loss at what to say. What _could_ she say, after all? She'd just woken up with a killer hangover in the arms of Alex de Lune (both of them completely naked, she was horrified to realize), her sworn nemesis since childhood.

Need she even think about the fact that this man was not simply Alex de Lune, but _His Royal Highness_ Alexander de Lune, Crown Prince of Beladir? She had, for lack of a better term, slept with the future ruler of her birth country.

_Oh. Dear. God._

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"Be a dear and aim for the opposite direction, won't you?"

Gwen found her nausea vanishing as she was overcome with the urge to smash his infuriating skull against the wall (_mustn't dirty my clean walls,_ she reminded herself). Instead, she began to think over the events of the previous night. Considering her current post-inebriated state, she was not all that surprised that the last thing she could remember was…

_Shit._

She could not remember anything.

Her expression must not have been all that difficult to decipher, because Alex took a single glance at her suddenly pale face and said, with the air of one speaking to a child, "If you are all that desperate to remember what happened, then allow me to enlighten you. We had sex. We slept together, danced the horizontal tango, did the funky chicken. Any of this ringing a bell?"

Gwen scowled. "Oh shut up," she snapped. "I'm trying to remember how this"—she vaguely gestured around the room—"came about." She shot the prince a suspicious look. "You didn't…_do_…anything to…_make_ me…do this…did you?"

"Honestly, Gwen. That is the most absurd thing I've ever heard," he protested. "I assure you, none of our, ah, _activities_ were unsolicited," he added with a roguish grin.

Gwen's mouth dropped open. "You…you…you…_utter pig!_" she shrieked, abruptly sitting up (and instantly regretting it, as her shriek produced another headache and the sudden movement certainly didn't improve her condition). Under normal circumstances she would have called Alex much more awful names—never let it be said that Gwen Connor did not know how to swear—but we must forgive our heroine. The circumstances were, after all, not exactly normal.

She was rather disconcerted when Alex, instead of coming up with a retort, grinned as his gaze shifted…downwards.

Only then did Gwen realize that, by sitting up, she had effectively exposed her upper half (her _naked_ upper half) to Alex. Glowering, she yanked the blankets up to cover her breasts and clutched the sheets so tightly her knuckles turned white.

"But how can I be so sure you didn't—"

"This is ridiculous, Gwen. You do realize you're accusing me of raping you?"

The way he put it, it _did_ sound ridiculous. However arrogant and rude Alex de Lune was, Gwen knew him well enough to know that he would never lay a finger on a woman unless she _wanted_ him to.

Which, of course, did not bode well for her sanity.

She had actually _wanted _him to…to…to…

Ignoring the dumbstruck girl at his side, Alex stood, stretched, and began searching for his clothes. It was _not_ in the least bit pleasant to have to bend over collecting articles of clothing when his body was tired and sore.

"Oh God, whatever have I done to deserve this?" moaned Gwen, putting her face in her hands. She paused, lifted her face to the ceiling, then said, "On second thought, don't answer that."

Then, yet another piercing shriek shattered the (relative) peace of the morning.

"Oh my God! _Oh my god!_ A ring! A _ring!_ What the fucking hell…it's a goddamned ring!"

Gwen glanced at Alex and screamed again. "_Shit!_ You have one too!"

"What are you talking about?" he demanded irritably, her yelling none too gentle on his poor, hung-over brain.

"Look at your wedding finger!" spat Gwen.

Alex glanced at his left hand and found that he was indeed wearing a wedding band. It was a simple ring, undecorated and made of white gold. It mustn't have been all that expensive. "Interesting," he mildly remarked.

Gwen rose from the bed, still clutching the blanket tightly around her body. "Interesting? _Interesting?_ We're _married, _for God's sake, and all you can say is 'interesting'?" she snarled. "_When_ did this happen? _Why?_ And _why_ in God's name aren't you affected by all this?" Without waiting for Alex's answer, she muttered, "Damn, my clothes," under her breath, and began scurrying around the room, finding first her dress (with a suspiciously long rip down one side) and then a pair of silky unmentionables (hanging innocently from the curtain rod).

"Firstly," said Alex, as he went and retrieved Gwen's underwear, as she was much too short to reach the curtain rod, "I have no idea how this happened, and most certainly not _why_." He held out the bra and panties, which she snatched from him with a look of contempt on her face. "Secondly, I can assure you that I am not unaffected by this situation. I have merely decided not to be calm and rational and not to overreact."

"_Overreact?_" snapped Gwen. "I wake up and find out I'm married, to _you_ of all people, and I can't remember anything that happened the night before—tell me, Alex, how the _hell_ am I supposed to react?"

For once, Alex had no answer.

Glowering furiously at the ring on her finger, she sat back down on the bed and asked, "What do you suggest we do?"

"I don't know. Get breakfast? Maybe take a shower?"

Gwen's mouth dropped open.

"I meant _separately_." Alex raised an eyebrow, smirking mischievously. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer otherwise…?"

Gwen scowled and executed a sharp about-face that would have made any military man proud. She stomped off to the bathroom, ruining her poised exit by nearly tripping over the blankets wrapped around her body.

Alex rolled his eyes.

Gwen slammed the bathroom door behind her as hard as she could, hoping that the noise resulted in a terrible headache for Alex (she too could feel the pounding migraine within the confines of her skull, but it would be worth it if Alex suffered the same). As she climbed into the shower and turned on the water (hot, thank God), she tried, once again, to remember the series of events that had led to…this.

It had been some sort of party…no, a wedding. Yes, that was it. Jean's wedding. Jean Marsaud had befriended Gwen when she'd first come to Paris nearly a year ago, and she wouldn't have missed his wedding for anything. Gwen hadn't known the bride, Erica Blake, but apparently Alex did—the girl was of Beladirian descent and apparently her mother had been one of Her Majesty Queen Jacinth's favorite ladies-in-waiting.

The memories then came fast—much too fast for Gwen's liking.

_"Let me get this straight," said one of the bridesmaids, whose name Gwen had long since forgotten. "Your mother was the head chef at the palace, and your entire family lived there?"_

_"Mhm," muttered Gwen, swiping a flute of champagne from a passing waiter's tray. She'd begun her drinking binge just as the reception turned into a party, when the more respectable guests had already left, and was, to put it quite plainly, drunk._

_"And you _never, _not once, fell for Prince Alex?" the nameless bridesmaid asked. _

_Gwen would have liked very much to tell—Elise…Elaine…she really couldn't remember—what sort of man the prince really was: an arrogant, high-and-mighty, womanizing, boorish _prig. _However, before she could do so, the bridesmaid began to speak once more, and Gwen wondered if she had really wanted an answer._

_"If it were me, I would have taken every chance to be with him. He's just so _gorgeous, _isn't he?" gushed the bridesmaid._

_Before Gwen could say anything, a masculine, entirely _unwelcome _voice said in perfect French, "Well, Gwen, darling, aren't you going to answer the nice girl?"_

_Gwen growled inaudibly, while the bridesmaid flushed and looked ready to faint. "Oh, Your Highness!" she cried, getting to her feet and clumsily curtsying. "How do you do?" _

_Alex bestowed the girl with his charming, 'ladies' man' smile. "I seem to be at a disadvantage here, mademoiselle. You know who I am, but I don't know who _you_ are."_

_"It's Anne, Your Highness. Anne Gaucher," said the bridesmaid breathlessly._

_"Anne, what a lovely name, it suits you." _

_Anne laughed and flirtatiously batted her eyelashes. "Oh, Your Highness, you are _such _the flatterer—"_

_"Excuse me," said Gwen loudly, suddenly getting up, "but I need to have a very serious discussion with the prince. Mademoiselle Gaucher, if you please." And with that, she dragged the prince away from the party, leaning up to whisper in his ear._

Gwen felt her face burn with shame, grateful that her memory hadn't so recovered that she managed to remember what she'd whispered to Alex. So it had been _she_ who began the whole thing. For all that she'd accused Alex of propositioning her it had actually been the other way around.

She'd been drunk, lonely, and sad, Gwen remembered. The marriage bug had bitten all her friends, it seemed. Jean had just married his Erica, Blanche was newly engaged (to a handsome solicitor with the _dreamiest_ English accent), and even Luc—good old Luc, reliably independent Luc!—had confessed that he was planning on making a trip to Massachusetts so he could marry his college sweetheart (also an Englishman, incidentally).

Gwen was normally not given to drowning her sorrows in drink, but she had decided to make an exception that night.

And Alex had provided a rather…pleasant…distraction from her melancholy musings.

_No, no, bad thoughts! Bad thoughts!_ Gwen nearly smacked herself before remembering that she had a hangover, and such an action would not improve her already pounding headache. She absolutely _refused_ to think of Alex de Lune in such a manner. Last night's debauchery was over and done with—there was no reason to dredge it up again.

She ran the bar of soap over her lower half, muttering swearwords when she felt the slight twinge of discomfort between her thighs. As she soaped her legs, she then noticed a black line running across her left hip…

"AAAAAAARRRRRGGGGH!"

Still in the bedroom, Alex heard Gwen's screech and grimaced once more. Really, for such a petite slip of a girl Gwen had a great deal of lungpower. And overreacted far too many times for his liking, he mused. He sat down on the chair before the dresser, picked up one of the books on the nightstand, having nothing better to do while waiting for his turn to shower, and began to read.

Just as he began perusing the first few pages of (he checked the paperback's front cover) _The Secret Garden_, Gwen came storming out of the bathroom, wearing only a towel, looking twice as furious as before. "Do you happen to have a tattoo?" she demanded, hands on her hips.

"Um…no…"

"Look at _this._"

Alex decided that, while the sound was not exactly easy on his ears, he much preferred Gwen's shouting to the icy, chilling tone she was currently employing. The latter sounded downright _frightening_, whereas her screaming was just, well, annoying.

Gwen hiked up a part of her towel, baring her left hip.

Inked on her olive skin in dark green and black ink, in Gothic-style printing, was his name inside a tiny red heart.

_Oh dear._

* * *

Any person dropping by number fifty-four on the fifth floor of the elegant, snazzy apartment building would have seen a young, newlywed couple sharing an enjoyable breakfast. Both were comfortably seated around a table laden with pancakes, coffee, and eggs. There was, of course, the telltale glint of wedding rings on their hands.

However, if said hypothetical person were to _listen_ to the conversation, he would have come to an entirely different conclusion. Yes, the couple was indeed young and newlywed, and they were indeed sharing breakfast, but they were most certainly _not_ enjoying it.

"What were we doing again?"

Gwen sighed impatiently. "We need to talk," she said. "And no, don't say it!" she added, effectively cutting off any response, which would undoubtedly have been a teasing remark along the lines of, "You're leaving me, aren't you?!"

"Killjoy," retorted Alex.

"This is _serious_, Alex!" snapped Gwen. "We are _married_, for Christ's sake. Try and think about repercussions for once in your life. The press will have a field day if they find out. That is, if Queen Jacinth and my mother don't kill us first."

"Gwen, you exaggerate," drawled Alex. He took a bite out of his pancakes, drank some of his coffee, and continued. "Mother _adores _you. She's always saying that if I married you she could die happy."

"I don't think Her Majesty had a marriage like _this_ in mind," said Gwen dryly. "Besides, didn't she have something planned for you? An arranged marriage or some such thing?"

"That's Jeremy you're thinking of," corrected Alex, referring to his younger brother. "Mother had plans of matching him up with some wealthy American socialite, but he stood her up their first date and Mother hasn't tried to wed him off since."

"Oh." For a while, Gwen was silent, then she said, "What about the matter of getting a divorce then? I don't want much to stay married to you and I assume you don't either."

"Well, divorces take an awfully long time to push through," said Alex thoughtfully. "What about an annulment?"

"You need witnesses for an annulment. And I don't know about you," said Gwen dryly, "but I don't exactly want Jean and Erica's guests remembering we left the party together last night. Plus I think those take even longer."

"Well, we maybe we could get a quickie divorce," suggested Alex. "If we return to Beladir I'm sure I can pull a few strings—"

"No!" hissed Gwen vehemently. "I absolutely_ refuse_ to get a divorce in Beladir. Can you imagine the headlines? 'Commoner Gwen Connor leaves Crown Prince'. I'd be painted as some kind of…of…of…gold-digging slut!"

There was a pause.

"So…" Alex hid his smirk as he took another sip of coffee. "Well, if you don't want to go to Beladir, what about America? They do _everything_ in Las Vegas anyway. Mexico? St. Kitts and Nevis? Nauru? Where else do they get quickie divorces anyway?"

"Have you _not_ been listening to a word I've said?" demanded Gwen, her fingers itching to grab the cup of coffee and splash the contents into Alex's smug face. "There's this little thing called 'the press' that _kind of_ poses a_ little _problem for us getting a divorce _anywhere_ that requires us to leave Paris. I absolutely _refuse_ to have some paparazzo snap a shot of us boarding a plane, come to the conclusion we're eloping, only to find us _divorced_ when we get back. I'll be painted the bad guy here!"

"Oh."

"Yeah," spat Gwen. "_Oh._"

"So our only option would be to get a divorce the old-fashioned way," said Alex, idly stirring his coffee. "Those take _at least_ a year to be finalized."

"I _know_ that," snapped Gwen. "Oh _God_, married to you for a _year_…" She groaned unhappily.

"I'm not exactly jumping for joy either," retorted Alex.

There was another pause.

"Wait a minute!" said Alex suddenly, his face suddenly lit up with ecstatic realization. "I realize this is going to be a completely stupid idea and it most likely _wouldn't_ work," he said excitedly, "but just hear me out."

"Okay," said Gwen cautiously.

"See, according to Beladirian law…"

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

It feels good to be back! –basks in the moment–

Ah, okay, I'm done. –laugh–

My first fairy tale…ah, I'm so proud! I've wanted to do a modern Cinderella for _ages_. And, well, here it is!

Oh, yeah, for those who are curious, Beladir is a _fictional_ archipelago located in the Mediterranean Sea. It's primarily English-speaking, but native Beladirians have a trace of Spanish in their accents. More info will be given about Beladir in general as the story progresses.

Feedback please! –puppy dog face–


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